


flume

by little_baby_kaiju



Series: for emma, forever ago [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bedwetting, Depression, Other, Poetry, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 14:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15293106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_baby_kaiju/pseuds/little_baby_kaiju
Summary: He is condensation on the side of a soda can, scientifically useful yet a nuisance to anyone who doesn’t like having perpetually wet hands.





	flume

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song Flume by Bon Iver. I’m planning a small series set to Bon Iver songs. I’m sad tonight. This is keeping me safe and sane. Bear with.
> 
> I turn 18 on Thursday. That’s a thought.

A summer storm batters the metal ceilings of the ‘dome as he awakes. The thunking is a comforting rhythm against the irregular beating of his heart. Usually this would be the point where he stretches, assesses his pain level for the day and vacates his bed in favour of relieving himself.

That’s on a normal day. Today is different. Today his limbs are weighted down with tonnes of steel, heavy enough that he fears his bones may crack under the pressure. His chest is concave and his eyes have been pushed back into his skull, the divots of his eye sockets melding around them like plasticine. His leg doesn’t hurt on days like today, because he can no longer register any feeling other than the thick weight of the fog in his mind keeping his body flush with the bed. Not even the dull ache in his bladder can make him leave his bed on days like today, with occasional disastrous consequences.

He lies there, unable to move, with his stomach swirling uncomfortably as he contemplates giving in. He knows he won’t be able to do it, his arms won’t move like he wants them to and so his pain pills stay untouched on the bedside table. But he’d like to. He lies there and fantasises about what it would be like to die, how the pills would taste as he poured them into his dry mouth, how they’d feel as they dripped down his oesophagus like a faulty faucet.

That thought is his deciding thought, he thinks. When he gets to that point he either is able to snap himself out of it due to the stupidity of the thought or is distracted enough by the pressure in his bladder to get up and do something about it, or to not do anything at all, not minding the gush of soaked sheets and having to shower again just to wash away the itching, stinking reminder of how weak he really is (even though he bathes every evening anyway) if it means he doesn’t have to move ever again.

He always ends up moving. He can never stand wet bedding for long, not with a leg like his. It’s as if the steel melts down through his limbs and out of the back of him as he regains feeling. The sopping heat almost surprises him as he lifts the duvet from his body. He strips out of his pyjamas before setting foot on the floor, minimising the damage even as he hates himself for what he has done, for what he has let himself become.

He is condensation on the side of a soda can, scientifically useful yet a nuisance to anyone who doesn’t like having perpetually wet hands. He is a drop of water not unlike the ones that fall from his hair as he sits in his chair under the brief regulation cascade.

By the time he is ready, it is lunchtime. He’ll pop into the mess for some food, but slip quickly back to the lab and hope Newton doesn’t inquire about his absence. That’s the upside of having a bum leg. You can always blame your bad days on the physical pain.

The storm rages on. He is a drop of water hitting steel. His molecules are just held together, until collision. On collision he falls apart.


End file.
